TupaTalk: Dreams helped forge my life’s path, but there’s always that nagging 'what if?'

You know the slow thawing toward the start of baseball stirs some magnetic memories.

Growing up as a teenager without a brother or dad — and in a neighborhood where gray hair predominated and neighborhood Boy Scout troop numbered five guys — I didn’t have a lot of help in sharpening my major league dreams.

But, I still tried — sometimes to the consternation to those around me.

We lived in an old, old house, built at the time when the front yard measured like 100 feet, or more, from the porch to the city sidewalk. One day I found an old, worn out bat that had been abandoned in an old workshop behind our house. Countless bees, hornets and wasps had taken up residency in it; it must have been a winter’s day when I found it.

Armed also with an old softball, I went around to the front door and played one man shag. I belted the ball toward the street and had to go fetch it every time I made contact. But, one of my liners veered to the right and it crashed into the outside wall of our neighbor — right above the plate glass window.

When the ball contacted, it sounded like a rumble of thunder.

Needless to say, one angry neighbor later my long ball hitting exploits in the front yard became soft taps.

I remember working on my pitching by throwing at our outside wall — usually when Mom wasn’t home or was sleeping in the back bedroom.

But, after a couple of broken windows — and us in such an economic state that we couldn’t afford to pay the heating bill every month, let alone replace glass panes — I had to alter my mode of helping my burgeoning baseball skills to blossom.

I mean I really, really believed I could do it. Not in a cocky way — I didn’t possess the self-confidence or self-image to talk about it.

I didn’t even play Little League baseball. I didn’t even know there was Little League baseball. This was back in the 1960s and early 1970s, and we had moved 11 times (three different states, eight different cities) before I turned 11.

My world mostly revolved around family and listening to old records and watching TV, and school and church and eventually my paper route.

But, as I learned in school physical education about sports — baseball and football, especially — I began following the big leagues. And my dreams grew.

But, they mostly stayed in my heart. I knew my mom and sister realized my passion for practicing and constantly seeking someone to play a game of catch with.

I remember being savvy enough to appreciated throwing a “no-hitter” in a recess session of softball. But, no one else really cared.

My bed was made of three large mats. At night, while Mom worked as a cleaning lady at a 12-story bank office building, I would carry those mats into the front room, stand them up together and crash into them as hard as I could to work on my hitting and tackling skills.

My favorite of all activities is when I got into a neighborhood game of flag or touch football. I ran toward the ball with unwavering enthusiasm and love of moment and activity.

I don’t know how much potential I had. I was very fast and very quick and possessed good size, but I hadn’t grown into my coordination or out of my timidness of hitting someone with all my weight.

When I found a place to pitch a softball, I would rear back in a real windup and let it go — but there has hardly anyone on the other end their to it. Somewhere, there’s photo of standing on the driveway and in a pitching staff, a goofy smile painted on my face.

Perhaps my most audacious moments of chasing a dream happened when my mom and sister where out of the house. I propped up one of my bed cushions on a wall and flung the ball as hard as I could toward it. Unfortunately, some of the missiles missed the mat and put holes in the wall.

I tried to cover them up with typing paper and tape. But, fate has strange ways of revealing our transgressions. When my turn came, the world lost a great pitcher.

Finally, feeding courage off my dreams, I tried out for a couple of school football teams. Well, the first time the coach said he didn’t have any extra uniforms.

The second time, I came within a week or so, after a full summer of work, of earning a team spot. But, for a variety of reasons I’ve never quite understood, I pulled back. The coach asked me to stay with the team as a manager.

Coming out of my youth, playing sports — especially basketball — would not lose their glamour for decades.

I won’t go into detail, but the priority I put on our little weekly pick-up games at the church gym probably far exceeded their worth to me.

But, I kept going, feeling that boyhood magic each time I ran up and down the court or handled the ball.

The only athletic activity in which I would really excel was distance running. But, that occupied such a short period, about six years, of my life.

Even today, part of me is that boy in front yard, alone with his dreams, throwing a football up in a vertical spin and catching it.

Those dreams helped forge my life’s path, for which I am grateful. But, there’s always that little nagging voice, “What if?”

The call of reality and fantasy mixed together on the forever blossoming playground of the heart.

This article originally appeared on Bartlesville Examiner-Enterprise: Mike Tupa: Dreams helped shape me, but 'what if?'